


1-Silk

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 3, What Was Old is New Again [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, POV, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-02-18
Updated: 2000-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy anniversary, baby! Obi-Wan practices his skills in slow seduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1-Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Fuumin

The tunic and pants are crisply pressed and hanging ready in my closet. I retrieved the uniform yesterday from the laundry, so it has that universally pleasant just-washed smell. They’re my fourth and newest set of blacks I’ve had since becoming Qui-Gon Jinn’s padawan, the last three simply outgrown. This set has only been worn twice, the last time at possibly the stuffiest embassy reception I’ve ever been to, where the most exciting event of the evening was watching my master in his own blacks.

That, I have to admit, was more exciting than most things I can think of, but tonight will be much more so. Tonight, I get to touch as well.

I take my black boots out of the closet along with the polishing kit and sit down on my bed with one boot in hand. They’re a little dusty from disuse, but I usually clean them every tenth when we’re here, unless I wear them more often. They’re lighter and more supple than my field boots, not meant for rough conditions, with a thinner sole and lower heel and no buckles, fitting tight to my calf over the uniform pants. I wipe the dust away with one cloth, then spread polish over the soft leather of both boots with another before going back to the first boot and beginning to buff it. It takes effort and attention to produce the high gloss I want, and I’ve worked up a sweat by the time I can see myself in the shaft and toes of both boots.

I take a quick shower and wait for my master to return to our quarters. By the time he does, he has had a long day full of meetings and annoying, trivial discussions that have left him in a foul mood. In some ways, that makes this even better. I give him tea, rub his shoulders until they loosen, and suggest he take a long, hot shower—stressing the “long” part—while I make dinner. He tries to lure me into the shower with him, but I decline, pleading kitchen duties. In truth, those are already done, but I have other last-minute preparations to make.

Inside my room, where I have not slept in years, I lay the blacks out on my bed, and strip out of the old tunic and pants I’ve been wearing while getting things ready. The only thing I have left to prepare is myself, and one step of that process proves to be a little awkward. The hard part is getting the lubricant in without making a sticky mess. I manage it, finally, by lying on my side on my disused pallet. After that, inserting the plug is simple. After wiping up, I pull on the tight black pants and fasten them, smoothing out the wrinkles, then pull on the tunic with its myriad annoying fasteners and seal myself into it. Like the pants, it is skin-tight, made of some clinging fabric, meant more for show than practicality. The boots in their blinding glare go on last, and I’m ready.

I catch him coming out of the ‘fresher, just as I’d planned, so he smells wonderful, of soap and heat and skin, and the essential maleness underlying it. His long hair lies in wet ropes down his back and clings in damp tendrils to his powerful shoulders and long neck. His beard is freshly trimmed and neat on his handsomely weathered and craggy face. He’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped round his trim hips and a flush of color from the steam. At least for now.

I step in front of him as he heads for his bedroom and hold it out to him. He arches his eyebrows in surprise, at both the gift and finding me standing in front of him in my best blacks, boots polished to a mirror sheen.

“What’s this, Padawan?” He’s torn between the gift and the spectacle of me in this tight uniform—one of his favorite sights, so he’s told me.

“Something to mark our first ten years together, My Master,” I tell him. “Or had you forgotten?”

Obviously, he has, or has chosen to ignore it, but he smiles cryptically and drops the towel, letting me help him into his gift, shrugging it onto his broad shoulders and tying it around his waist. I step back to admire.

It’s just the right shade of blue. I knew it would be. I’ve looked at—into—his eyes often enough to know the color well. Unlike mine, they don’t change color, unless they’re black with desire, and even then they are still ringed with that blue that’s nearly cobalt. They can be hard as blued steel, calm as an evening sky, warm as the hottest part of the flame. Now, with his body wrapped in watered blue silk that cost me—well, more than I’ve ever before spent in one place at one time for one person—his eyes are cool and deep like two fathomless pools. He steps over to the mirror for a brief, modest look of his own, rubs the material experimentally between his thumb and fingers, strokes his palms down his arms once, enjoying the texture, then tucks his hands inside the loose sleeves as though it were his cloak, and turns back to me, delight honest in his face.

“Thank you, Padawan. It’s splendid. You chose the color very carefully, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Master. It took me a long time to find the right one,” I acknowledge. He would notice that, though he’s not a vain man. Since we’ve become lovers, he’s been more careful of his appearance than before, keeping his hair and beard trimmed neatly because he thinks it pleases me. In truth, I love him both tangled and tidy. I love him however he comes to me. We’ve been together when one could hardly see the other’s skin for mud, as well as in our dress blacks or fine clothing provided for us by our hosts, in such states of raggedness and wretchedness that we looked like beggars and more richly dressed than kings. It makes no difference. Let him think it does; there are few ways he can indulge me now, and I would not deprive him of this one.

And there are few ways I can indulge him, for the time being, though I would give him everything. Jedi have no real luxuries and little money. There is a small stipend from the Senate for each of us that provides for some modest desires such as my master’s books and my instruments, but any wealth one of us owns has been bequeathed by our own families. Everything else—food, clothing, quarters, medical care, training facilities, transportation, education, provisions for our old age or crippling injury—is provided by the Temple, financed by the Republic’s and the Order’s coffers. No one lives in luxury, even here, and those away from any of the Temples on long-term assignments often live in great poverty. Even those assigned to, say, diplomatic duties on developed worlds often live in a comparatively harsh asceticism. My master renounced the rights to his family’s own considerable wealth in becoming a Jedi; mine has been held in trust for me and I tap it occasionally, as I did for this gift. But I have learned, growing up in the Temple, that what I most value cannot be bought.

He steps forward and pulls me into his arms, tilts my head up for the kiss I know is coming, gentle at first, in gratitude, warming as I return it. It’s hard to say whose lips part, whose tongue seeks whose first. Three years and we are still hungry for one another. Each day I send my gratitude for that into the Force to keep me from rolling and groveling at his feet as though I were his pet and not his padawan. I’ve begun to understand the tired maxim about serenity and passion, that it has nothing to do with negating the emotion, only restraining it, balancing it. How much longer it would have taken me to learn that lesson were we not lovers: yet another debt I owe him, one of many I can never repay.

Beneath my hands, the silk lies against his back like a second skin, impossibly smooth and cool at first, slowly heating to the warmth of his body. It follows the contour of shoulders and waist and buttocks, falling from there to his ankles. I pull away reluctantly and bow, because he is my master first, motioning him ahead of me into the bedroom. A small noise of surprise escapes him when he finds it a warm and candlelit sanctum, purified by light and love, so I know he really wasn’t expecting this, was not, perhaps, even suspicious. Good. That gives me more pleasure than he could possible know, that I have learned to shield myself well enough to surprise him.

“You’ve been very stealthy, Padawan,” he confirms, gaze roving with pleasure from the vast bed stripped down to the linens and piled with pillows and bolsters to the small table holding hot and cold delicacies that I spent the day making or acquiring and his favorite wines chilling in an ice bucket. “But I must confess I hadn’t thought—”

Before the regrets can spill out, I seal his lips in a kiss. We have never mentioned it before, the anniversary of the day I became his padawan. Some pairs do, some don’t. There’s no tradition to follow. The date falls close to my birthday, which he always remembers, as he does the date we first became lovers, but this day has come to seem far more important to me than the former, and entwined inextricably with the latter. I think, too, he has put it from his mind because it reminds him of his own stubbornness and the painful rejections between us, both mine and his. But I have always felt my life truly began on that date, that at the moment he first called me padawan, I went from being a child to being, if not yet a man, well on my way to becoming one. That he now loves me as he would any other man is proof of how far he has brought me along that way, to make me worthy of his love.

“But I have thought to mark it, My Master. Indulge me,” I reply, pulling back.

He cups my cheek in one large hand, traces my lips with his thumb. “I rarely refuse you,” he says quietly.

“Only when you think it best,” I agree.

“What would you, then, My Padawan? In what shall I indulge you tonight?”

I drop to my knees and bow, forehead on the ground between his bare feet, laying my hands on them instead of the floor. “Let me serve you, My Master.”

There is a brief pause and his voice is husky when he replies, so I know I have moved him. I would know without the bond between us, but it is filled clearly and suddenly with love and wonder—and desire—and I can hardly repress a shiver myself. “As you wish, Obi-Wan.”

“Thank you, My Master,” I reply, running my hands from his ankles to the backs of his thighs as I rise, then resting my cheek against the silk over his groin. I feel his cock stir with interest and smile a little. _//Not yet, Master,//_ I tell him, and get to my feet.

Shortly, I have him lounging against the pillows with a glass of wine in his hand. I love watching him perform the rites his little god demands, how he opens the bottle with reverence and care, as though loosing a cherished spirit, brings the cork to his nose to test the worthiness of what’s been captured within, lets the liquid breathe like a living thing for a time before pouring, and when pouring it, how the neck never touches the lip of the glass, how the bottle is swathed gently like an infant. Then a slight swirl of the glass, followed by another sniff and a small sip that he rolls across his tongue and palate with the same care that he kisses. I’ve seen him spit the first mouthful on the ground like a libation, or into some ornate receptacle before pronouncing upon it like a high priest, but he doesn’t do that now, and I’m the one who pours for him, as he’s taught me. Still, some rites are not to be forsaken, regardless. Swirl, sniff, sip, savor. The smile that follows is one of pure carnal gratification and it sends an almost illicit thrill right through me. My master is a man of restraint and control, but he enjoys the physical pleasures of the Living Force—pleasures of the body—as well as the spiritual rewards of the Unifying Force.

“Excellent, Padawan,” he murmurs, looking like some decadent sensualist, leaning back against the pillows with one knee bent, the silk of his new robe gaping a little across his chest.

“Thank you, My Master,” I reply. “You’ve taught me well.” His commendations are always a pleasure, given as they are only when truly merited, and I bask in them like sunlight.

As he sips, I dry his hair gently with a towel and plait it loosely down his back, pressing my lips to the line of his neck and shoulder as I sweep the silver and bronze strands aside. It’s grown quite long since we’ve been together, nearly as long as my own padawan braid, and though he’s threatened to cut it shorter, I’ve begged him not to. I love the weight of its mass in my hands, its raw-silk texture, the whisper of it against my skin when we make love. Pulled back, it emphasizes his high forehead and strong features, the nose broken in a fight that nearly killed him, and the piercing eyes set deep beneath dark brows, makes him even more beautiful in my eyes. In return, I help him care for it, combing it out after he’s washed it, brushing it out at night and braiding it when he asks and sometimes before he does: small services any padawan would give any master. I am lucky to have this one, so any service I can give him seems small.

As I braid his hair, I admire our reflection in the closet’s mirror, watching him savor his wine and watch me. He doesn’t look his 58 years and won’t for some time to come. The more the Force fills us, the more our lives expand—a paradox when one considers that we seek oneness with the Force and that ultimate oneness is found only in death. But we are the weapons of the Force and it uses us as it will, and rewards us as it does. So we age slowly and remain nimble longer—increasing the odds we will die by violence. Everything has its price.

But we are taught to live in the moment, and the next moment brings me to his side with more wine and a plate of warm tidbits, as many of his favorites as I could find ingredients and recipes for. Diplomats, as a rule, eat well and richly and my master has been one for some time. His palate is sophisticated, and I’ve seen him eat things I could barely stand to look at. At the very least, he will enjoy the experience of trying something new. At the same time, he is, like most Jedi, as grateful for plain fare as high culinary art and rarely refuses anything. At Temple, where the fare is as plain as it comes, he sets to at table with as much pleasure as if it were any of a number of diplomatic banquets we’ve attended where the lavishness and quantity are almost shameful.

I have yet to decide if my master is a true hedonist or a secret ascetic.

I fill a plate for him and stand at the side of the bed, offering the delicacies one by one. He watches me as I bring each one to his mouth, saying nothing, as I watch him savor each tidbit I give him, which he does with obvious but not exaggerated pleasure. I’ve fed him only three morsels before he takes my wrist and stops it before I can bring the fourth to his lips, looking up into my eyes.

“It would please me, Padawan, if you would join me,” he says in a low and gravelly voice that is almost like a live wire against my groin.

“As you wish, My Master,” I reply a little breathlessly, my own cock twitching in thoughtless, selfish—and thoroughly conditioned—response.

At his behest, I fill another plate, pour myself a glass of wine and turn back to the bed. Of course, I anticipated this eventuality, and there is plenty for both of us. He’s moved over, giving me room to sit beside him. I kneel, instead, sitting back on my heels and facing him, my knee against his. I touch his glass with mine so they chime gently. “My Master.”

He accepts the toast graciously, drinks a little, then touches my glass with his, producing another soft _ting._ “My Padawan,” he says, returning the compliment, and brings the rim to his lips, watching me over it. I take a sip, feeling unaccountably flushed. The wine, probably. I have, as my master has often pointed out, a very low tolerance for alcohol. Then he pulls me to him with a hand on the back of my neck and kisses me, tongue sneaking between my lips, and I know it has nothing to do with the wine. Even that can’t mask the taste of him, better than any banquet, any bouquet.

We smile a little slyly at each other when the kiss ends, neither of us sure who is doing the seducing. He licks his lips and watches me, waiting.

I feed him another tidbit, murmuring “try this, Master,” and holding it out between my fingers. He leans forward and opens his mouth, then curls his tongue around the morsel, sweeping it from my finger and thumb with a delicate movement that barely touches the pads of my fingers, but makes me shiver nonetheless.

Then he takes a bit from his own plate and holds it out to me on the tip of one finger. When I look up at him, his mouth is quirked into a sly but almost invisible smile. I take the bait, but slowly, first closing my lips around just the tip of his finger and drawing back enough to sweep the morsel into my mouth, then sliding slowly down to second knuckle and sucking a little as I draw back. I watch his eyes dilate as I do, until they are black pools ringed with blue. The food, good as it is, is much improved for the taste of his skin with it.

He’s breathing a little faster now, and so am I. We both take a sip of wine and turn our attention back to our plates for the moment.

“You’ve never tried these, have you?” he says conversationally, holding up a long, grey prickly-shelled, unappetizing leg of something. I do know what they are but prefer not to think about them in their natural state. He prizes them as a great delicacy, at least their legs, hence their presence on the menu.

I shudder. “No, My Master, and I’m not likely to, given a choice.”

“Oh?” he says, teasing. “Jedi should always be open to new learning experiences, Obi-Wan. Some cultures,” he goes on, cracking it in half against the fulcrum of his strong, blunt thumbs, “insist you dig out the meat with awkward little forks or picks. I prefer eating them this way.” He puts one cracked-open end between his lips and his cheeks hollow a little as he sucks, moving the shell in and out just the slightest bit. After a moment, he cracks the leg a little farther down and repeats the process, and once again until the broken shells are hollow. When he’s done, I find I’m watching him with my mouth open a little, breath short again.

“Certain you won’t try it?” he asks.

“Perhaps later, when you’ve had all you want,” I tell him, swallowing heavily. “They are for you, after all.”

The almost-invisible smile is a little less invisible now. He knows he’s gotten to me. “As you wish, Padawan.”

We torment each other more with the rest of the menu, carefully chosen for just such a purpose, sucking and licking bits from one another’s fingers, literally eating out of each other’s hands, tipping shellfish between each other’s lips or passing them from mouth to mouth. The hollow of his throat makes the perfect cup for a bit of roe, its saltiness mingling with his when I lick it out, then continue nibbling and licking down his chest until he stops me with a barely contained groan. We’re careful of his new robe, careful of my uniform, and therefore tortuously delicate and controlled with one another, as we should be, as Jedi should be. Nothing is spilled or dropped, nothing goes to waste. I’ve made up finger bowls, but he abandons decorum and prefers we lick each others fingers clean. Who am I to argue with my master? By the time we’re finished, most of the wine is gone and we’re both painfully hard, breathing deep and slow in the effort to stay that way.

“Now what, Padawan?” he asks quietly, waiting to see what I have planned.

“Whatever My Master wishes,” I tell him, bowing as I kneel on the bed.

He is the picture of seduction, lying lazily against the cushions, one leg drawn up, the other crooked under it so the silk gives me tantalizing glimpses of his inner thighs and his balls in the shadow between them. His cock is already peeping out between the edges, crown glistening. Who would guess he could be so casually wanton? Sometimes he shocks even me, after all this time, as he does now.

“I want you to watch me, Padawan, and when you’re wound up and squirming, I want to fuck you in that uniform.”

My heart starts to pound. “Yes, My Master,” I gasp, swallowing heavily, scandalized and aroused at the same time. It always astonishes me to hear my dignified and serene master say such things.

He starts to touch himself then, pulling the blue silk aside so I can see his fingers circling and pinching his nipple as the other hand closes around his cock, thumb and forefinger pushing back the foreskin and spreading the bead of fluid from the slit around the head. From there, his hand drops to his balls, fondling and rolling them and I can feel my own tightening up against my body, wanting to feel his hands doing the same things to me. If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel what he does through our bond. It’s almost enough to make me come, but I know he doesn’t want that, not yet, so I let it go. The fingertips of his other hand are sliding up and down his chest and belly, slowly, almost hypnotically, dipping lower and lower, finally loosening the robe’s tie to reveal more glorious skin. They glide lower then, to close around his cock, and he thrusts into his fist with a moan, closing his eyes, throwing his head back, lost to pleasure.

The head of his cock is almost purple, the shaft a heated red, all of it so large. I can never get over how large he is, especially his cock. I want to take him into my mouth and feel that heat, taste him, suck him, swallow him whole. My hands close into fists in frustration. His hand moves up and down his shaft briskly, his hips thrusting until pre-cum is running from the slit in a stream. Again, he swirls his thumb around the head, spreads the fluid over his shaft, thrusts and thrusts until I know he’s almost ready to come and I’m shivering and whining, wanting to touch him, be touched by him, have him in me. His other hand dips behind his balls, and he shudders for a moment but doesn’t come.

When he opens his eyes again, there’s a fierceness in them I seldom see and it makes my heart pound harder. Looking at me, he’s off the bed in one lithe movement, the silk billowing out behind him, then swirling around his ankles as he comes to a stop. Just seeing that nearly makes me come. He pulls me off the bed and stands behind me, yanking me against him, and I can feel his shaft throbbing against my ass through the fabric of my uniform. Shaking hands unfasten the pants, push them roughly down to the tops of my boots and bend me over the side of the bed. I cross my arms and lean my head on them, lightheaded with need and desire.

I feel his warm and familiar hand slide down my spine over the cloth of my tunic, then onto the bare skin below my waist and into the crevice of my ass, where his fingers encounter the plug. He’s startled for a moment, then laughs.

“By the Hundred Little Gods, Obi-Wan, you were a whore in your last life. I’ve always suspected it.” I grin, though he can’t see me. He’s right. I was. I could be again, but only for him.

He strokes his fingers hard over the plug, making it shift inside me and bump my prostate, then moves it in and out, spreading the lubricant. I hear myself whine again until he pulls it out and leans over me, fingers gliding over my stretched muscles, one slipping just inside, giving me something to clamp down on. It’s not enough. Not enough.

“Are you ready for me, Padawan?” he growls, hot finger twisting in me, sliding in a little deeper, tantalizing.

“Yes! Gods, yes!” I hiss, wanting him, wanting to please him, wanting him to fuck me.

He plunges two fingers inside the loosened slickness I’ve prepared for him, then three, widening me and stroking my prostate until I think my head will explode. But I want his cock inside me.

“Now! Now, My Master! Now! Please!”

His hands spread me, blunt thumbs digging inside, stretching me more, and then the head of his cock presses against me, hot and slick with pre-cum. However much he’s stretched me, it’s not enough, never enough, and he has to push against me, hard, holding my hips as he slides inside me slowly, solid and huge. His cock fills me until my whole pelvis feels turgid and hot, my legs weak. I clamp down hard around him in reflex, making us both groan, and then as my muscles loosen again, he begins to move inside me in the slickness and I think I might die. I’ve been waiting for this all day, for tens, since I asked Master Windu and Master Koon the last time we were on Coruscant to keep him occupied today. Everything that came before this was for him, though I took my own pleasure in it. This is for me, and he knows it, though he’ll take his own pleasure in it as well. That’s how it works, give and take, take and give, sharing the pleasure.

“How do you want it, Padawan?” he growls, rotating his hips, stroking my cock slowly.

“Hard and fast, Master! Please!” I gasp. I feel his cock draw almost out of me and slam back inside, raking my prostate. He holds me down by the back of my neck at first, then holds my hips, as though I were going anywhere with my pants around my knees. I know he likes this as much as I do, likes seeing me in this uniform, hard and ready and half-undressed, as much as I like seeing him with that blue silk tight around his ass or billowing out behind his beautiful body.

Hard and fast is how it comes and my voice drops into guttural, graveled, incoherent sounds as he pounds into me. We flail against each other and stars begin to shoot across my vision like fireworks. My balls are up tight against me, my cock pulsing, swelling, and then his hand is there, fingers beneath me, stopping it even as I feel him come, seed shooting deep inside.

I feel the rumble of his groan through my back more than I hear it and he lies panting against me for a moment before slipping the plug back inside. I’m too surprised to even protest, my erection half-lost, but he anticipates me, as he always does, kissing the back of my neck beneath the high collar.

“I wanted to make it last for you, Padawan, for both of us,” he murmurs, stroking over the plug. I feel myself hardening again at the thought of my master’s cum held inside me and at the movement flicking against my prostate. “Pull up your pants but leave them open.” Hands shaking, I do as he asks, watching him make himself comfortable on the bed again. He lies against the cushions, body framed in blue, thick braid coming loose in wild wisps, eyes heavy-lidded and sated. He spreads his legs and draws them up a little, his heels on the mattress. “Here,” he says. “Kneel here. I want to watch you.”

I do as he asks, kneeling and taking my cock in my hand through the fly of my pants. I’m fully clothed but for that, kneeling in my black boots on the white sheets. I wish for a moment that I were facing the mirror, so I could watch myself while watching him watch me, master and padawan.

“Closer,” he says and I move up until my knees are against his ass, the backs of his thighs up against mine. “Stroke yourself.”

I’m hard again, cock aching, arching up against my tunic, streaking it a little with pre-cum. My hand closes around it, stroking slowly, watching him. His gaze travels up and down my body as mine roves over his. He lies against the pillows like carnality embodied, limbs wantonly loose, eyes hooded and dreamy, sweat gleaming on his skin. The blue silk glows around him, and where it lies against his skin makes the hidden flesh more tantalizing. Gods he’s beautiful.

“Touch your balls,” he says, and I move them out through the fabric, squeezing and rolling them, still stroking.

“Faster,” he murmurs and I see his cock stir again. “I want you to come on me, Padawan.”

The idea makes me quiver and stroke harder and faster until I’m thrusting into my own fist, squeezing my balls, moaning, panting, crying out—coming in pearly ropes on his chest and stomach, still careful not to soil the silk. Gasping, I sit back on my heels for a moment as my cock subsides, then lean forward and work my cum into his skin, rub my face and mouth and braid against him until it’s all I can smell, all I can taste when I lick my lips. He leans up and kisses me, licks my lips, my cheek. “Lick it off, Padawan,” he whispers into my ear, tongue following the whorls, teeth nipping my earlobe.

“Yes, My Master,” and I’m grateful for it. I love the taste of my cum on his skin and there’s a great deal of both to taste. I’ve made sure to rub it into his nipples, so I linger a long time there, and root it out of his navel with the tip of my tongue. By the time I’m done, he’s nearly writhing beneath me and hard again.

“As you were, Padawan, against the bed,” he gasps, getting up and pulling me with him. We return to the position we started in with my pants around my knees again, with fewer preliminaries. The plug comes out, and he’s driving in, nine slow, shallow strokes, running his hands over my tight tunic, fumbling with fastenings then tearing it when they will not open quickly enough, sliding his hands inside over my burning skin; then eight shallow and one deep and hard and my cock starts to fill and his hand closes around me again, giving me a fist to thrust into; then seven shallow and two hard and deep and so it goes until I’m aching and grinding against him, damning his control, wanting him hard and fast until there’s just one shallow stroke and he pounds into me again—oh gods!—pushing me over the edge until I come, shuddering and crying out, bucking into his hand and back against him and I feel him come inside me again, letting out a deep sigh.

After a moment, he pulls away, sliding the plug back inside to hold in his cum, rubbing mine onto his own cock, wasting nothing. We have ruined my tunic, but his robe is still pristine, not even sweat-stained. With obvious and gratifying regret, he takes it off before we ruin it too and drapes it over the bench at the foot of the bed, then pulls me onto the bed, beside him, still clothed. We lie down together, sticky and hot, still breathing heavily, hands touching one another. The room smells of wine and semen and candles and what little food there is left. In short, like a den of debauchery. My master seems completely unperturbed by that fact as he slides his hand down inside my pants and once again fingers the plug. I squirm, moaning against his throat, drawing a leg up to throw over his hip.

“And who taught you about this, Padawan?” he queries with amusement, moving it inside me, making my breath go short again.

“I have had many teachers, but only one master,” I tell him, keeping as serious an expression on my face as I can under the circumstances.

“Impudent padawan,” he complains and kisses me. “This was a wonderful gift, Obi-Wan,” he says gently, when it ends, stroking my skin beneath the open tunic. “You’ve given me much over the years: your persistence, your hard work, your loyalty, your devotion to duty, your patience, your forgiveness, your love—but nothing so enjoyable or handsome as yourself. Thank you.”

I’m tempted to make a quip concerning rocks, but refrain. There will be a more appropriate time for it in a few days. Instead, I ask him, “What makes you think that’s all of it?”

His eyes glimmer with an almost feral light. “Have I told you, Obi-Wan, what an excellent padawan you are?”

“‘As the master, so the pa—’” The rest of my words are swallowed in another kiss, and I must make good on my threat. So during the following hours, I let him nibble and lick the last of the roe from my nipples, my navel, the tip of my cock—hardship that it is—and trick me into sucking the surprisingly sweet flesh out of one of those legs. As a reward, he nearly sucks the flesh out of me, swallowing my cum as though it were one of tonight’s delicacies. I tell him that’s a very effective way to motivate me to try new things. We finish the wine, sharing the last mouthful in a kiss. The taste combination of wine and cum and Qui-Gon is intriguing.

Then we ruin the rest of my blacks. He nestles up behind me and slides his big hands down the front of my tight pants and begins to stroke my cock and fondle my balls, rubbing his thick cock against the fabric over my ass. I come first, spurting a dark, wet stain against the crotch as he milks it from me; he comes a moment later, anointing the back. Fortunately, even our dress blacks must be replaced now and then, and no one will question another requisition. We make the most of that fact since he seems to like the way it fits around my ass, the way the fabric holds the smell of our cum. Afterwards, he rubs his face and beard against the damp cloth, back and front, and slowly peels it off me, licking damp skin as he goes. The boots, at least, have survived.

By the time the candles burn out or are put out, we don’t need to see. We can find each other by touch and taste and smell.

“You really hadn’t forgotten, had you?” I murmur into his ear at some point, half asleep and finally naked. I smell my cum and his in his beard, and tired as I am, it makes my heart pound a little faster. “No, Padawan,” he replies, stroking my braid. “But it was not my place to bring attention to it. That was your choice. I honor you on your nameday and the day you chose to trust me with your heart. You honored me and our bond tonight with your gifts.” “I knew that,” I mumble, feeling stupid. “Of course you did, Padawan,” he agrees, kissing my eyelids gently. We make love again and he comes inside me twice more. I fall asleep, finally, still filled with his cum, holding part of him inside me, feeling connected to him physically the way we are through our bond.

If I could keep him with me, always—but that is a selfish thought, unworthy of any Jedi. We go where we are told, when we are told, and with whom or alone. We live to serve, however that might be. For now, I serve my master as well as the Order. Someday, perhaps, we will also serve each other.

In the morning, he comes to the table straight from the fresher, wrapped in blue silk that matches his eyes. “Good morning, My Padawan,” he says.


End file.
